


The Arrangement

by la_faerie



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blow Jobs, Infidelity, M/M, Married Couple, Orgasm Delay/Denial, infidelity as a kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-20 23:26:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_faerie/pseuds/la_faerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Niall thinks he should probably take a shower, he needs one anyway, but he pauses on the threshold of the bathroom. He can still smell that unfamiliar perfume that had been clinging to Zayn. The sheer otherness of it strikes him, the fact that it belongs to someone else, that Zayn had belonged to someone else for a moment, and then come home to belong to him.</i> </p>
<p>or, Niall and Zayn work out a way to add a new wrinkle to their marriage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Arrangement

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thediamondskies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thediamondskies/gifts).



> A very Happy Belated Birthday to Zee!!! I'm sorry, this was supposed to be a ficlet but, as you can see, it took on a ridiculous life of its own.
> 
> Cheating fic is not for everyone. Please pay attention to the description and the tags for this fic. I tried to handle this material carefully, and I hope that comes across. It's obviously 100% fictional.
> 
> Neither Louis nor Perrie are named in this fic, although I had them in mind while writing a couple of scenes with Zayn. If you want to imagine Zouis and Zerrie, you can. It's up to you.
> 
> As ever, thank you to [Lindsay](http://archiveofourown.org/users/icecreamsocialist/pseuds/icecreamsocialist) who is always the most supportive even when dealing with a pairing that isn't her favorite, or a trope that doesn't quite do it for her. Lindsay, you're so smart and wonderful, and I wish I could pay you in Chloe handbags.

Niall spends exactly one day wallowing fully in it.

He had called Harry, who had sounded almost more upset by the news than Niall. “I love Zayn,” Harry started in, “but I’m so angry with him, I could kill him. I could actually kill him.”

“I know the feeling,” Niall replied wryly. He doesn’t normally do wry.

It was sweet of Harry in a way, and typical of him, as he experiences every emotion instantly and genuinely. It’s not that Niall doesn’t, it’s that he doesn’t know what to feel right now. 

“I imagine you feel betrayed,” Harry had said, trying to talk things through with him. “And that’s okay. You should feel that way. You have to let yourself really feel it. Really live it. That’s the only way to heal and move on.” 

So Niall sits on the sofa, curled in on himself, and goes through all the emotional stages he thinks he’s supposed to feel, something like: anger, bargaining, drinking. There’s quite a bit of self-pity there too. Only two years into marriage and it’s already falling apart. A wedding ring means very little, apparently. The anger is aimed at both Zayn and himself. He should have caught on more quickly, he thinks. All those nights he had spent without receiving a call or a text from Zayn, not hearing anything until hours later when Zayn would crawl into bed smelling more like cigarette smoke than ever, but also an undercurrent, a kind of foreign perfume, an accord of unfamiliar notes speaking of things Niall never wanted to acknowledge.

The only thing is, doing nothing except feeling sorry for yourself is actually pretty fucking boring. Niall heaves a sigh and unfolds himself from where he’s sitting. Zayn is supposed to be back from teaching his evening art class soon, and Niall figures he should confront him somehow about it—the text he had accidentally seen, the way it had worked to confirm the unmistakable lipstick mark on the collar of Zayn’s white button down—air it all out between them. Even if it’s a fight, even if it’s awful, he has to confront Zayn. Niall has never done secrets, until now.

He busies himself working in his home office doing some sound tech stuff for a new song of Liam’s. Except that the image of the lipstick refuses to be buried at the back of Niall’s mind. He had taken the shirt to the dry cleaners where the lady had looked at him like she knew exactly what that stain was, and what it meant. It hadn’t been a whole imprint, just one side of the woman’s mouth, and Niall imagines the rest must’ve come off onto his neck, a bright red smear standing out against Zayn’s skin. The idea makes Niall feel, well, decidedly not bored. It’s like his chest is expanding too quickly for him to properly catch his breath. He has to stop working, close his eyes, and lean his forehead against the wall to come back to himself.

 

Zayn comes home a bit later than usual that afternoon. Niall is in their bedroom when he hears the click of the door, the metal jangle of Zayn tossing his keys onto the coffee table, the way he flips through piles of mail, the casual hello he calls down the corridor. Despite his earlier resolution, Niall has a moment where he wavers. It’s just that this all feels so _ordinary_. It will be a shame to have to upend that normalcy.

He walks into the living room where Zayn greets him with a grin, easy and open. Niall knows Zayn really is happy to see him. The way his face lights up every time he sees Niall—like the moon glimmering at that first touch of a reflective ray of sunlight—it’s something that’s impossible to fake.

“There you are,” Zayn says, striding over to Niall. “I was beginning to think you weren’t actually home.” 

He wraps one arm around Niall’s waist, and tangles the other in his hair. Niall lets him do it, lets himself be wrapped up for a moment. Zayn’s nuzzling into his neck, and it feels like home, except that it isn’t anymore. Underneath the haze of stale cigarette smoke, lurk all those unfamiliar scents: strange perfumes, remnants of other men and women, their homes, their lives. 

Zayn moves in for a kiss, but Niall puts his hands on Zayn’s shoulders to stop him. Things are different now, and Niall won’t ignore it. He pushes Zayn backward and really looks into his face. Maddeningly, he looks the same as ever, if a little tired, dark lines creasing beneath his eyes. Niall can’t find the answers to any of his questions just by looking. Zayn doesn’t say anything, but seems questioning, his lips slightly parted, his tongue visible, as though he’s about to ask. Niall stands very still in answer. He’s completely self-possessed; he holds Zayn’s gaze, levelling with him, issuing an _I know_. It rings loud and clear in the quiet flat, and Zayn lets out a small gasp.

Suddenly, Niall doesn’t want to hear it, doesn’t want to hear anything from Zayn. He hauls Zayn in for a kiss, and it’s not gentle. It’s open-mouthed right away, breath hot against each other’s lips, teeth clacking together. The kiss is accusatory and angry from Niall’s side, but Zayn doesn’t back down, matching Niall with a fierceness. It’s a desperately earnest and trembling _I love you_ from both sides. Zayn’s hands trail down to the hem of Niall’s t-shirt, lifting it up, and Niall pushes Zayn away again. His fingertips feel both too hot and too cold.

He holds Zayn by the shoulders, exerting a slight downward pressure. Zayn is shaking his head. “What are you gonna do?” he asks, and Niall wants to scream just to fill up space because the question is too open-ended. He knows what he’s going to do right now, though. He pushes a little harder on Zayn’s shoulders and tilts his chin downwards. “Really?” Zayn asks, sounding more curious than incredulous, as though he’s wondering himself if he actually will do it. Zayn blinks once, slow and thoughtful, his eyelashes going dark against his skin for a moment before opening back up again. Then he sinks gracefully to his knees in front of Niall. 

The surprise of Zayn’s easy acquiescence, the thrill of the power, has Niall becoming hard already. Zayn undoes his trousers, only needing a couple strokes of his hand before Niall’s fully ready. Zayn glances up, not in hesitation necessarily, but that question is still lingering, no longer on the tip of his tongue, but around the edges of his mouth. Niall, who has a very specific idea of what Zayn should be doing with his mouth right now, continues look back at him with his self-possessed gaze. It must mean something to Zayn, because he gives a nearly imperceptible nod, and takes Niall into his mouth. 

Niall had wanted to be quiet, and, in fact, hasn’t said a word to Zayn yet. But he can’t help moaning as Zayn sets to work, no teasing at all, just sucking hard around Niall’s cock. It isn’t normally like this between them. It’s usually casual, cheeky blowjobs while sitting on the sofa watching a mindless film like The Hangover together. However, this is something else. This is Niall insisting on something, and Zayn carrying out his wish with a determined intensity. 

Zayn is gripping at Niall’s hip with one hand, but Niall feels knocked off his feet, like he’s about to lose his balance any second, like he already has. He tangles both hands in Zayn’s hair to keep himself steady, and if this makes it easier to fuck into Zayn’s mouth, he doesn’t fight it. For his part, Zayn goes with it.

Zayn is making noise too, little moans discernable through the sucking noises, vibrations seeming to echo in his throat. He seems unable to stop himself, just like Niall, and the idea makes everything even more heady. Niall has to wonder if Zayn does this for other people, if he kneels for them. Does he let them pull his hair? When he sleeps with other men, does he suck them down like this? Does he like it?

Niall chokes as though he’s drowning, overwhelmed and submerged by the swirling force of these new thoughts. He comes down Zayn’s throat with a strangled cry. He feels like a whole lifetime passes before he’s able to draw in a breath again. His hands are still knotted in Zayn’s hair, and he loosens his grip and starts to back away. Zayn is still lapping around the head of his cock, licking it clean, and it’s too much.

Zayn looks genuinely lost for a second when Niall pulls away, his eyes hazy, his hand falling limply to his side as he remains on the floor. Niall feels alert though. Harry had said to really live his emotions, and that’s what he’s going to do, although it probably isn’t quite the way Harry expects. He tucks himself back in and does up his own trousers. Both he and Zayn are still wearing their wedding rings, but things are different now.

Zayn gets back to his feet, and Niall can’t miss the swell in his jeans, thinks he’s allowed to feel a little smug about Zayn getting so hard from sucking him off. He leans into Niall, expecting some kind of reciprocity, but it hasn’t quite gotten through to him yet. Things are _different_.

“No,” Niall says, giving him one last steely glance before turning around and walking out of the room.

Niall thinks he should probably take a shower, he needs one anyway, but he pauses on the threshold of the bathroom. He can still smell that unfamiliar perfume that had been clinging to Zayn. The sheer otherness of it strikes him, the fact that it belongs to someone else, that _Zayn_ had belonged to someone else for a moment, and then come home to belong to him. 

Niall likes it.

+

Some time passes without much of consequence. Harry needles Niall with questions about how he’s doing, how he’s coping, and the honest answer is that he’s doing everything he’s always done.

Niall works from home, as he always does, learning new songs on the guitar and helping Liam with his new album. At the weekends, he sits in front of the television watching the football and shouting about the officials.

“What was the call?” Zayn asks from the corner of the room, where he’s hunched over a piece of paper, his hands blackened from the charcoal he’s working with.

“Absolute shite is what is was!” Niall yells, slamming a glass of whisky down on the table, unable to be more articulate.

Zayn looks over his shoulder and smiles, indulgent and fond. “I believe you, darling.”

It’s all terribly domestic and normal until later, when Niall is washing out the whisky glasses, and a cold shard of reality cuts through him. He turns off the faucet in the sink and thinks _my husband has cheated on me_. He feels angry and brittle for a moment. He grips the countertop until he’s sure his hands have stopped shaking, and then dries the glasses.

Niall finds himself shaking a lot lately, his body completely out of his own control, and it isn’t always out of anger. In fact, it’s usually because of something quite different from anger. Sometimes he thinks about other people looking Zayn up and down, imagines the way they take him in: first observing his black leather jacket, the leather appearing butter smooth sitting across his shoulders. Then, as Zayn turns in the dim lighting of the bar, they see the cut of his cheekbones and his lips, slick with alcohol. Finally, they notice his eyes, the richest of browns, and speaking of unknowable worlds contained therein. All of this has Niall’s hands shaking until he has to seek out Zayn. He’s usually doing something excruciatingly banal like standing in the middle of the kitchen, eating ice cream out of the carton. Niall walks up behind him, wraps a hand possessively around his hip and gives him a pinch. 

This is the part that isn’t so normal, the part that’s changed. Niall hasn’t said anything about it to Harry yet, nor has he said anything explicit to Zayn, but he’s pretty sure Zayn knows. He hears the hitch in Zayn’s breathing as he pinches hard around his skinny hipbone. He notices the way Zayn’s head snaps up at the contact, and wonders if he’s deliberately exposing his neck. Niall thinks about biting it to find out, but doesn’t. Not yet. 

+

Then something out of the ordinary does happen. 

Harry invites Niall and Liam round for dinner one night, and Niall realizes that it’s an attempt to cheer him up or draw him out of himself. Liam keeps mentioning how he’s been meaning to go on holiday to Portugal, and Harry takes up the idea right away, eager to make plans. The two of them very pointedly avoid mentioning Zayn in any of these plans. They seem to be waiting for Niall to take a break, or to try a separation of some sort. They don’t expect anything as drastic as divorce, but, as they look at him with wide, inquiring eyes, Niall realizes he’s being expected to throw down some kind of gauntlet. They don’t know that he already has. Niall feels a bit shit keeping secrets from his friends but this is something private between himself and Zayn, and he isn’t yet sure they’ve worked out the terms of their arrangement between themselves.

When he gets home later that evening, the flat is dark. Zayn is still out, either still at work or elsewhere. That isn’t the unusual part. If he doesn’t go out, he often gets sidetracked making up lesson plans or tidying up the art room. The unusual thing is that Zayn calls. He doesn’t text, he actually rings Niall.

“Hey!” he shouts over the din in the background, clearly not at work.

“Everything alright?” Niall asks, slightly alarmed.

“Yeah!” Zayn yells back. “Listen, I’ll be home a bit later, okay? You need anything?”

It’s such an odd question at the moment, Niall reels thinking about what he might possibly need. Then he hears another voice, a man’s voice. Niall can’t make out what exactly he’s saying, but his voice—a honeyed Yorkshire accent—is discernable over the background noise. He must be very close to Zayn.

Realization swoops all hot and quick from Niall’s chest down to the pit of his stomach. This isn’t really a phone call, and Zayn isn’t really asking a question. It’s a signal.

“Nah, cheers,” Niall says, playing along. “I’m good. See you later, yeah?”

“Later, Niall.”

Niall washes the breakfast dishes he’d let pile up in the sink earlier that morning, and takes a shower. Then he flops down into bed, and switches on the eleven o’clock news. Zayn is home before the program even finishes. He crawls into bed next to Niall, still wearing his clothes from the day, skinny black trousers and a pastel blue Oxford button down. He looks slightly wrinkled by now, but it’s not messy, he just looks lived-in. Niall finds it both more endearing and more attractive than he’d like to admit.

Zayn props himself up on his elbow, looking Niall up and down. “Good evening, sir,” he says, all mock formal.

Niall rolls his eyes. “Good evening, yourself.” But he grins.

“I hope it’s been good for you,” Zayn says in a small voice. “I hope it is good for you.” He looks Niall in the eye, and then looks down as though suddenly shy.

Niall realizes, he’s the one in charge here. Zayn will wait for him to make the first move. Niall scoots closer to Zayn, and tucks a hand under his chin to lift his gaze. He kisses Zayn, light and gentle, a barely-there pressure on his lips. It’s to just to remind Zayn that it’s okay for him to come home and for them to do this together, that this is what they’ve agreed to.

“Hey,” Zayn whispers when Niall pulls away. “Tilting the chin up before going in for a kiss? That’s my move.”

Niall leans into Zayn, and pushes gently, but with intent, at one of his shoulders. Zayn falls easily down onto the mattress beneath him. Niall shakes his head. “Sorry Casanova, not anymore.”

He’s been feeling a bit badly about how things had played out that first time. Demanding Zayn suck him off in the middle of the living room and then refusing to reciprocate, well, it was a bit over the top. What he needs—what they need—is more _finesse_.

Niall untucks Zayn’s shirt and carefully undoes the lower buttons until there’s enough room for him to slide a hand underneath. He strokes across Zayn’s stomach, wondering if he’s the only one to do this tonight, or if another set of hands had roamed across Zayn’s skin here, too. He tickles lightly around Zayn’s bellybutton just to get a reaction. Zayn breaks out laughing, can’t help himself, then claps a hand over his mouth like he isn’t sure if it’s okay to do that right now. Niall gives him a smile.

He starts undoing Zayn’s belt, and then looks him in the eye. “What if I told you that you couldn’t come until I said you were allowed?”

He sees the sharp intake of breath as Zayn’s chest expands. “Is that what you’re telling me?”

Niall leans close to Zayn’s ear, whispering, “The important thing for you right now, is just to listen to what I say. Can you do that?” Zayn’s adams apple bobs as he swallows hard, and then gives a nod. “Good” Niall declares with a smile, and then moves back down the bed to take Zayn’s trousers all the way off.

Zayn’s dick is already taking an interest. Niall spits in his hand, runs his fingers around the head first, and then strokes down. Maybe he used a little too much friction because Zayn gives a strangled-sounding cry.

“First thing,” Niall looks Zayn in the eye, and speaks in an easy tone of voice, like they’re discussing the weather. “No noise. You’ve been out all night, darling. It’s time for a little quiet now, don’t you think?” Again, Zayn gives him a nod. “Perfect,” Niall says encouragingly, and settles into more of a rhythm with his hand around Zayn’s cock.

It isn’t completely silent in the room. The television is still on at a low volume, a low blaring of noise still discernable. A clock ticks steadily from atop the dresser. It comes off as oddly domestic to Niall, and the sound of skin working against skin fits right in. He imagines that it’s quite different to what Zayn had been doing earlier, out in a crowded bar, having to shout to be heard. The contrast makes something begin to curl in the pit of Niall’s stomach.

“Secondly,” Niall continues in his easy tone, not wanting to disturb the bizarrely peaceful atmosphere, “I like doing this for you, Zayn.” He raises an eyebrow and tilts his head to where he’s still working a hand up and down Zayn’s dick. He gives a laugh. “You must know that by now. So, here’s the deal: I’m going to keep doing this for you right now, but I’m going to come first. Do you see?” 

Zayn opens his mouth to respond, but then bites his lip. Niall moves his free hand to where Zayn is gripping the duvet, knuckles turning white. He takes Zayn’s hand and gives it a squeeze. Zayn squeezes back. He’s doing so well, and Niall wants to remind him that, whatever this arrangement is, they’re in it together. He finds that he doesn’t necessarily want to be powerful in the way that he was last time. He likes being in charge, but also making sure Zayn knows that he’s being taken care of.

Niall releases Zayn’s hand and palms at his own dick where he’s steadily becoming stiff in his boxers. It feels good, even though it’s just his own hand. He almost makes a noise, but then bites his lip, just like Zayn. It’s only fair, because Zayn had taken care of him, too. When he had rung earlier and asked if Niall needed anything, he was really making sure that Niall needed _this_ , that he needs it as much as Zayn does. Maybe it’s why he had come home earlier than usual, unable to wait any longer to see Niall’s reaction.

Niall crouches over Zayn, mouthing around the head of his cock. He’s leaking pre-come pretty heavily by now, and Niall licks it away. He feels Zayn’s body jerk underneath him as he struggles to remain silent and to keep from coming. Niall ruts against one of Zayn’s legs, and he thinks it’s probably losing him style points, and ruining the illusion of him as someone powerful and in-charge. But he’s getting close now; the question of what Zayn had done tonight tantalizing him. Had he and the other man merely flirted, Zayn looking like a tease, as he rushed home to be with his husband? Or perhaps they already knew each other, met for a quick drink, and an even quicker fuck in the bathroom or in someone’s car.

Niall can’t tell because none of the usual signs are there this time, he can’t discern a foreign cologne mingled with sweat. Zayn hadn’t looked all that rumpled when he had come home. He doesn’t smell like sex.

Niall has to sit up, stroking his own dick furiously now. He imagines Zayn meeting another man, flirting with him—looking up from underneath his eyelashes and sticking his lower lip out in a subtle but noticeable pout—trying to entice this man, but also thinking of returning home to Niall. Both things at once.

He can’t help crying out when he comes, thinks he’s earned it by keeping quiet with Zayn for so long. He collapses on top of Zayn—still able to detect his erection against his leg. Zayn is good, he doesn’t say anything. He brings an arm up and rubs Niall’s back while he comes down. Niall tries to re-focus as quickly as he can. He leans his forehead against Zayn’s, notices his lips set in a thin line.

“Very good,” Niall breathes out over his mouth, and Zayn’s lips part. “Can you come for me now, Zayn?”

He’s barely touching Zayn’s dick again, when Zayn curls over on his side and comes, giving a choked sob against Niall’s neck. He comes on the duvet, and Niall thinks fleetingly of how annoying it will be to take in to the dry cleaners. But it’s his turn to rub Zayn’s back now. He’s still wearing his Oxford shirt, now soaked through with sweat. One more thing to add to the laundry pile. As he and Zayn hold each other, Niall thinks about how everything they do together is tinged with domesticity. Maybe he hadn’t really understood the meaning of marriage until now. Whether they’re merely watching a film together, or testing out this new sexual agreement, it’s always a laundry list, detailing the domestic.

+

About a week and half later, Zayn stays out late on a Friday night. He sends Niall one text as a signal, a lipstick kiss emoji. Maybe it’s an asshole move on Zayn’s part, too flippant. Yet, Niall had liked the idea of someone else’s lipstick marking Zayn’s skin. He wonders how Zayn had guessed. _Behave_ Niall sends back, maybe being a little flippant himself. Now he knows that he doesn’t need to bother waiting up.

The next morning Niall lets Zayn come when he wants to as they fuck, mid morning sunlight creeping into the room around their drawn blinds. But Niall doesn’t want to hear it. He claps his hand over Zayn’s mouth. Zayn’s already come—maybe more than once—last night, and Niall doesn’t want to hear it this time, he wants to feel it. He presses the side of his face down onto Zayn’s chest, waiting for it: the sudden intake of breath, the tensing of his muscles. Niall needs to know that, as Zayn’s body shudders beneath him, that it’s because of him, specifically. It isn’t a different voice whispering in Zayn’s ear, teasing him, seducing him. Not this time, not now.

Niall feels Zayn’s heartbeat stuttering, and then evening out again. It lets him feel his own breath coming more steadily.

+

It’s a Sunday morning, and Niall rolls over onto Zayn, resting his head on his chest. Zayn wraps an arm around Niall’s back, bringing him in closer, and buries his face in Niall’s hair. The two of them stay like that for some time, savoring the quiet and the chance to sink into each other.

“He had blue eyes,” Zayn says suddenly into the silence. “Just like you.”

Niall stills, not breathing for a moment. He doesn’t need to ask to whom Zayn is referring. He strokes a hand down Zayn’s stomach. “As long as he wasn’t Irish.” Niall knows that he wasn’t, had heard his decidedly English accent. It’s safe to joke about this. “Can’t have other people stealing all my best traits.”

“Of course not,” Zayn laughs. “I hear enough about bloody Ireland on a daily basis.” Niall wonders what Zayn doesn’t hear enough about. “He was sharp,” Zayn continues after a moment. “His smile, his face. It was all sharp edges. And it made me realize,” Zayn sweeps two fingers across Niall’s cheekbone, “you’re all smoothed out.”

Niall turns his head so that his chin is resting on Zayn’s chest and he can look Zayn in the eye. “What are you saying? That I’m a softie?” 

“No,” Zayn shakes his head. “I’m saying that you don’t need it. You don’t need sharpness. Not for yourself, and not to get to me. You pierce right through me just as you are. You always have.”

Niall doesn’t respond. He rests his head on Zayn’s chest again, absentmindedly tracing patterns on Zayn’s skin with his index finger. Zayn isn’t like him or like Harry, he doesn’t speak without thinking first. He’s never spoken about his liaisons directly before, and Niall knows there must be a reason for it now. There’s something to his words—a comparison being drawn—Niall understands that much. But whatever picture Zayn is drawing, there’s too much shading. It’s too opaque for Niall to see beyond, to see the answer to the bigger questions, the _what are you doing?_ and _why?_ that burn continuously at the back of his mind. 

+

It happens so easily. 

Zayn and Niall have similar black iPhone cases. Niall knows he should change, maybe get one with an Irish tricolor design or something. He quickly realizes he’s snagged Zayn’s mobile off the coffee table instead of his own when he sees that the lock screen is the Batman insignia done as an Andy Warhol silkscreen. He’s already swiped the button to unlock the screen, he had done it automatically out of habit. Zayn must have been in his messages earlier, because that’s what pops up instead of the home screen. 

It’s happened before, this mix-up, and it will happen again. But _this specific time_ has happened before. Niall accidentally opened Zayn’s messages to see one conversation in particular, and now he’s done it again. It appears to be a woman this time. Niall doesn’t bother to look at too many of the details, doesn’t need to. He clicks the lock button, and the iPhone screen goes black.

Niall knows he should be looking for his own mobile, but he stands still in the living room for a moment longer. His lungs suddenly feel too small to draw in all the air he needs to breathe. He can’t say for sure just yet, but he wonders if this had been another signal on Zayn’s part.

 

Later that night Niall is curled up into one corner of the sofa, idly watching an episode of MasterChef. Zayn wanders into the living room, and Niall can tell already that he has A Look in his eye. He sits down on the sofa, leaving some room between himself and Niall. But, after a minute, he leans over, and lets his head rest on the back of the sofa right by Niall’s shoulder. Niall waits a beat, then turns to look down at him. Zayn’s grinning up at him, his eyes narrowed in expectation of something, and Niall knows what the mobile mix-up earlier had meant. He turns his face away from Zayn and curls his shoulders inward so that he’s hunched in on himself.

Zayn sits up immediately. “Hey,” he says softly.

Niall gives a little sniff, then a cough. He supposes it’s time to iron out the details of this arrangement. He mutes MasterChef because this is important, and turns to look at Zayn again.

“I like it, what we do,” he says carefully. “But, Zayn, please don’t insult me.” Zayn sits up straighter at this, almost jumping, as though Niall’s just struck him in the back with an arrow. “It’s how I found out, the first time. Accidentally looking at your text messages, it’s how I figured it out. I like what we do _now_ ,” he emphasizes. “But I don’t need to be reminded of that.”

Zayn lets out a long breath. “I’m sorry. I’m…” Zayn buries his face in his hands for a moment before looking back up at Niall. His eyes are shining with tears. “Niall, I’m so sorry. I never apologized for treating you carelessly. You were so angry with me that one night, and you had every reason to be. I was afraid of you, then. I liked it,” Zayn admits. “I liked you being so strong and self-assured in your anger like that. But I was too scared to apologize, and then I never did. So that’s what I’m doing right now.” He holds out both his hands, palms up, like he’s supplicating. “I like what we do now, too. But I’m still learning how to do it, learning how it works.” 

It’s exactly like Zayn to talk about this in terms of learning, to talk about this as though it’s something he can achieve, something they can achieve together. It makes Niall want to smile and cry at the same time, and his whole face hurts with the effort of trying to avoid both. He manages a kind of grimace.

“It’s not really okay,” Niall says, because it has to be acknowledged. “But I think it will be. We can make it work.” He fits one of his hands in Zayn’s and gives a squeeze.  
“I’m learning, too.” 

They don’t have sex that night. They both sit curled up into one corner of the sofa, re-learning how to hold each other’s hands, how to fit together in that way. 

+

“So,” Harry begins, standing at the kitchen counter pouring out two mugs of tea. “Maybe Zayn’s just, like, a sex addict. Is that what it is, do you think?” 

Niall bursts out laughing, but turns to look at Harry with a serious look. “If you were with a real sex addict, I think you’d be aware. Or,” a thought occurring to him “I guess you could just be in denial.”

“De-Niall,” Harry declares, pointing at Niall. 

“Oi, I invited you over because you said you’d fix me tea, not because I wanted to hear your ridiculous puns.” Harry grumbles a little bit, but it’s just for show. He carries the tea over to the kitchen table, and takes a seat across from Niall. The two of them are joking with each other, but Niall knows that this is actually terribly serious. He blows on his hot tea, watching the liquid ripple in the mug as he considers. “It’s probably not a productive thing to think about,” he says, slowly, “but I can’t really help myself. I do wonder what Zayn looks for in others, what drives him to do it.”

“It’s natural to think about that,” Harry assures him. “But Niall, you know that the only person who can answer that is Zayn, right?”

“Cheers, Captain Obvious.” Niall stirs his tea, watching the milk swirl in the mug. “The thing is, I’ve thought about it quite a bit, actually. And I’m not sure if Zayn himself has figured it out.”

Harry’s eyebrows shoot up into his fringe at this. He considers for a moment. “It’s not really my place to say anything…”

“Says the man who just asked me if my husband is a sex addict. Nothing has ever stopped you from being inappropriate before.”

“Very true.” Harry allows himself a self-indulgent grin before turning serious again. He leans across the table toward Niall as though this will help him speak more earnestly. “It’s just that, Liam and I talked about it, and the cheating was a surprise to us because it never seemed like you two had bad sex, or that you had stopped having sex at all.”

“The sex wasn’t bad, and we didn’t stop,” Niall admits. “We haven’t stopped.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Niall shrugs, a little embarrassed. Harry is an understanding sort of person in general, but will he understand _this_? Is it possible for anyone to understand this? Niall isn’t sure. He tries to explain. “We’re dealing with Zayn here. When he does something, it’s on purpose. That’s why I thought he must be looking for something in particular, something in other people. Something—”

“I’m sorry to sound terribly old fashioned,” Harry interjects, “but I was at the wedding ceremony. He agreed to marry you. Not other people.”

“I know.” Niall taps his ring finger against the table, his wedding band echoing through the kitchen. He gives a strange little laugh. “I’m not an idiot, I’ve always known that Zayn attracts other people’s attention, that men and women hit on him, that…” Niall is in the middle of picking up his mug of tea. He stops with it halfway to his mouth, and sets it back down on the table. “Oh my god. I am an idiot.”

“What?” Harry asks, idly stirring his own tea.

“I should’ve realized.”

Harry looks up now. “Realized what?”

Niall thinks of sideways glances in public, not entirely subtle. “I like it when other people look at Zayn. And it’s not just that other people know he’s fit. It’s Zayn participating.” He thinks of Zayn turning to meet an unfamiliar gaze, striking up a connection as easily as lighting a cigarette. “It’s Zayn returning the look. I like it.” He thinks of red polished nails scratching down the bare skin of Zayn’s back. “I like it when they exchange more than just looks. I should’ve realized that I always have.”

“Jesus,” Harry lets out a low whistle. “So, that explains why you two haven’t stopped having sex. You filthy bastards,” Harry leers at him. “It’s probably better than ever.” 

“Wipe that look off your face, Styles. You’re not getting any details.”

“That good, eh?” Harry laughs. “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself.” Harry checks his watch. “Oh my god, I’ve got to run. I’m off to Liam’s, I’ll have to tell him about this.”

Niall rolls his eyes. “He’ll be scandalized.”

“All the more reason to tell him!” Harry cries, waggling his eyebrows. 

Harry puts on his jacket and winds a scarf around his neck. But, before leaving, he walks around to Niall’s chair, leans down and wraps his arms around Niall’s neck. 

“I know that Liam is a little bit more friends with Zayn, and I’m a little bit more friends with you, but we both just want you to be happy, Niall. Right now, that’s all we care about. It sounds like you’ve just stumbled onto a kind of personal revelation about something that does make you happy, and I’m glad. I really am, I’m not here to judge.” Harry gives him a light peck on the forehead, and pulls back enough to look him in the eye. “Now that you’ve figured things out for yourself, maybe it’s time to try talking to Zayn. Maybe really work things out between the two of you, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Niall whispers.

Harry pulls one of his goofiest faces, waves, and then lets himself out of the flat. Niall sits alone in the kitchen for some time. He doesn’t mind that Harry knows, doesn’t mind that he’ll tell Liam. (Of course he’ll tell Liam, there’s no one worse at keeping secrets between friends than Harry.) He doesn’t necessarily mind Harry’s advice, even. A long time ago, when he had first found out about everything, Niall had resolved to confront Zayn, which he had done, in a way. Now they have a different type of relationship, an extra layer, like a veil hanging over their marriage. Niall decides, as he drains the last of his tea, that he wants to keep that layer, but the tear the veil away. He thinks it’s possible to do both.

+

“Hey,” Niall smacks Zayn over the head with a copy of The Guardian. “Let’s go out later tonight, yeah? The two of us.”

Zayn looks up at him from where he’s sitting on the sofa. It’s sort of a question, and sort of a command with a lot of meaning tied up into it. “Okay,” he says slowly, trying to parse it all out. “Like, what were you thinking? Go to the cinema?”

“No,” Niall shakes his head. “You forget that I work from home, set my own hours. I can watch a film anytime I want. Tonight, I want to go _out_.”

Zayn’s eyes widen in realization. He holds Niall’s gaze for a moment, and then reaches for his free hand, giving it a squeeze. “Absolutely. We can do that.”

“Okay,” Niall answers, squeezing Zayn’s hand back.

“But,” Zayn pulls at Niall’s hand as he turns to walk away. “Do you think we should invite Liam and Harry, too?” Niall is about to protest—Liam and Harry are completely not the point—when Zayn pulls again at his hand. He looks earnest and considering. “Just this first time? Just in case?”

Niall breathes out. Zayn isn’t misunderstanding or misinterpreting; he’s trying to help keep Niall (and maybe himself, too) at ease. “Yeah,” Niall agrees. “That actually sounds like a good idea.”

“I’ll text Liam” Zayn says, already picking up his mobile. 

“And I’ll text Harry. By the way, I hope you clean up nice,” Niall calls over his shoulder as he walks out of the living room. “Do something with your hair for once, ya slob.”

“Oi! Going after my hair?” Zayn yells. “Give me that newspaper, I want to throw it at you, section by section.”

“Never!” Niall yells, running into the bathroom to take a shower. For the first time in months his body feels light, like he’s made of air, not bone. He glances in the mirror, blue eyes shining, rosy cheeks and a smile that he can’t seem to wipe off his face.

 

The four of them end up at a trendy bar-lounge type place in Mayfair that Harry suggested. There’s a dance floor, but also plenty of private booths, candles on every table and light fixtures set to the dimmest possible lighting to convey the proper mood. 

Niall and Zayn walk in hand-in-hand, Zayn’s hand feeling warm in Niall’s own. They meet Liam and Harry at the bar. Liam immediately pulls both of them into a hug, ruffling Niall’s hair, and clapping Zayn on the back. Harry looks more hesitant, and Niall knows it’s because he hasn’t had much to do with Zayn for the past couple of months. Niall gives him an encouraging nod, and that’s all Harry needs to see. He throws himself on Zayn, nearly tackling him in a hug, clearly having missed his friend.

“Alright! Alright!” Zayn shoves Harry off after a moment, embarrassed. “You’ll ruin my hair, and I did it especially for Niall.”

Liam and Harry exchange a confused glance, but Niall shrugs, accepting that this night is probably going to be pretty bizarre. Besides, he isn’t going to complain about Zayn following one of his orders, even when he had issued it jokingly.

The four of them snag a booth. Harry and Zayn order some fantastically expensive champagne, and spend a good amount of time tripping back and forth between the table, the dance floor and the bar with champagne glasses. Niall huddles up next to Liam for a bit of a low-key chat. It’s nice, Liam is always nice, but this isn’t why Niall has come out tonight.

The next time Harry makes his way back to the table—hair starting to curl even more than usual around his forehead from sweat—he’s alone. 

“I’m getting so old,” he groans, flopping down. “I’m exhausted, I need a little nap.”

“Pathetic,” Liam says, with a grin. “Come here, you.” He holds an arm out, and Harry fits himself easily underneath it.

“Just for a minute,” he says, leaning his head against Liam’s chest. “By the way, Irish,” he points to Niall. “Your husband was looking for you.”

Niall runs a hand through his hair, maybe a little nervous, and slides out of the booth. Harry doesn’t give him any direction, but he spots Zayn easily, anyway. Not on the dance floor, of course, but leaning against a pillar and talking to a woman. Or rather, it looks as though the woman is talking, and Zayn is listening. Niall pauses for a moment and watches Zayn watch this woman. Her back is facing Niall; all he can see is her hair, glowing almost platinum blonde even in the dim mood lighting. She’s animated, talking with her hands, leaning into Zayn and then back away from him again. She seems to be emanating her own light, and Zayn, sunk back against the pillar, looks incapable of doing anything except bathing in it.

Niall sways on the spot, feeling drunk even though he’s only had one pint. He’s drunk on the situation, the anticipation. He takes a deep breath, and begins walking towards Zayn and the woman. This is why he’s come out tonight.

Zayn notices him, and gives a nod of recognition. The woman turns around, and Niall almost stops dead in his tracks. She’s fair-skinned, her cheeks flushed and rosy, her blonde hair still practically glowing. Most strikingly of all, Niall notices that she has blue eyes, burning into the dim lighting with an intensity. Niall takes another step toward her wondering for a moment if he’s imagining her.

For her part, the woman takes Niall in from his feet up. When her gaze reaches his face, she gives a start, like someone who has just realized they’re standing in front of a mirror.

“Hey,” Zayn says to Niall, reaching for his hand. “You found me. This is—“

The woman presses a finger to Zayn’s mouth. “No, don’t introduce us.” She turns at Niall, giving him a look that resembles a smile, only it’s somehow more than just a smile. It’s a look of understanding. “I feel like we already know each other.”

“Likewise,” Niall says to her.

He takes Zayn’s hand, because it seems to be their thing now. The two of them separate for a little while before reuniting to hold hands again. Now they’re holding hands in front of someone else, and she doesn’t seem put off by it. The woman leans into Zayn, whispers something in his ear. It isn’t meant for Niall to hear, and that’s okay. Because it makes Zayn tilt his head back, exposing his neck, and that _is_ meant for Niall. He tightens his grip around Zayn’s hand and leans in until he can smell Zayn’s aftershave. He doesn’t kiss Zayn though, doesn’t bite. Not yet.

The blonde-haired woman is giggling now, her hand over her mouth, as though there isn’t anything in the world she loves as much as she loves laughing. It’s infectious and Niall can’t help smiling at her. Zayn is sandwiched in-between them and still sunk, as though boneless, back against the pillar. 

Niall is beginning to understand. There are differences, to be sure. For starters, she’s wearing makeup: something pink and glittery on her lips, which makes her light up even more, and also charcoal black eyeliner, intensifying the clear blue of her eyes. Then there’s the way she’s touching Zayn, it’s more overt. So far, Niall has stuck to simply holding his hand. It’s all he needs to do, certain of all the ways he’ll touch Zayn later that night. Whereas she caresses Zayn’s shoulder, flicks a hand up to adjust his shirt collar to subtly touch his neck, even touches a hand briefly to his cheek as she’s speaking. It’s intimate, and Niall realizes _they know each other_. The thought makes him lean in a little closer, breathing the same air as Zayn and this woman, wanting to get drunk on the taste of pink lipstick. 

Zayn slides down the pillar, falling into Niall’s touch, inclining his head even more. He seems drunk himself, and not on expensive champagne. For Niall, this entire arrangement has been about otherness, imagining Zayn with unknown people. But, he realizes now, that for Zayn, it’s about seeking out similarities. Right now he’s crushed under the sound of laughter and the power of blue eyes.

Niall isn’t sure where the line is, when Zayn’s had enough, or when he himself has hit a limit. But as he watches Zayn’s eyes blink open, heavy and slow, he thinks they’re close. 

He pulls Zayn in close. “Time to go home, darling,” he whispers, not phrasing it as a question.

“Okay,” Zayn agrees easily. 

The blonde-haired woman seems to have been expecting this. She kisses Zayn on the cheek, leaving behind a glittery mark. She gives Niall that same understanding smile and a nod, and then melts into the crowd on the dance floor.

Liam and Harry are dancing too, or, rather, Harry is flailing around and Liam is laughing hysterically about it. Niall and Zayn wave goodbye to this sight, and then call a taxi to go home.

 

Sitting in the back of the taxi, Niall takes in Zayn’s profile. He can still see the imprint of light pink glittery lipstick on Zayn’s cheek. Niall reaches over and presses two fingers into it, wanting to feel the texture of lipstick on his own skin. Then he slides his hand around Zayn’s neck and pulls him closer.

“Tell me,” he says, his voice more gruff than he intends. “Tell me what you like about her.”

“Aside from the obvious? I mean, she’s fit. Beautiful, really.”

“Tell me why you like her. Describe it to me,” Niall instructs in a calm voice. “Describe the way she kisses you.”

Zayn looks Niall in the eye now, but Niall knows he’ll comply. He always does when appealed to in a professorial manner. 

“I thought she would be similar to you,” Zayn confesses. “But it isn’t. Kissing her is different.” He points to his cheek. “Lipstick.”

“Yeah,” Niall breathes out. “You like it? Being kissed with lipstick?”

“Not the taste so much, but the texture. The smear of it. It makes a mess. I like that.”

“Mmm,” Niall murmurs. He reaches his other hand up to Zayn’s face. He drags a finger across Zayn’s bottom lip, and then presses down. He hears a moan rumbling in Zayn’s throat, as he lifts his head, apparently wanting more of Niall’s touch. Niall backs off. “We’re not finished,” he reminds Zayn. “Tell me what she tastes like.”

“Sweet, just genuinely sweet. Like powdered sugar. Like inhaling a whole pack of powdered sugar and feeling overwhelmed.” Zayn pauses. “You’re not like that, though,” he adds.

This throws Niall off. He had been so wrapped up in thinking about the other woman, he hadn’t realized that Zayn would be thinking about him, too. “Go on, then, what am I like?”

“I used to think you were sweet. When we first met, you were the lightest, sweetest thing. I could breathe all of you in like air. Now I know better. You’ve got an edge, and it gets me when we kiss, when you look at me. You’re not pure sweetness, you’re more refreshing than that. You taste like spearmint. You taste like a freshly pulled pint. You taste like Ireland.”

“Ireland smells like cow shit, I’m sure it would taste the same.”

“Not to me, it doesn’t,” Zayn insists, and he sounds absolutely serious.

“Zayn, why did you marry me?” Niall asks, knowing that it will ruin the mood. It’s not a sexy question. His tone is bruised, all the vulnerability he’s been working to hide from himself and from Zayn spilling through. But that’s what marriage is, it’s sexy and it’s domestic. It’s shifting power dynamics, and it’s being at your most vulnerable with another person.

Zayn gives him a sad little smile like he knows the usual _because I love you_ isn’t going to cut it here. He folds his hands in his lap, and folds in entirely on himself for a moment, thinking. Then he looks Niall in the eye. “Because I feel safe with you.” Niall huffs out a laugh, he can’t help it. It sounds like such a hilariously out-of-touch thing for a philanderer to say. But he knows Zayn is building to something. “I’ve learned a lot about you,” Zayn continues in a careful voice. “Both from being with you, and from not being with you. And I know that I can come home, and feel safe with you.”

Niall sees now. Their night out has illuminated some of the dark opaque corners of the sketch Zayn had begun drawing for him when they first acknowledged the infidelity, the full picture now coming into relief, just passing streetlamps cast light on Zayn’s face. It’s not simply that Zayn has a type, although he’ll fall for blue eyes every time. It’s that Zayn craves learning, always needs to write a comparative essay, so that running his fingertip along the sharp edge of someone else’s cheekbone helps him decipher the architecture of Niall’s face. And casual blowjobs on the sofa might have seemed safe, maybe _too_ safe, until Zayn had to prove it to himself: that he could leave for a time, and know that the marriage would still be there when he returned. Perhaps he had wanted to be caught all along, had wanted Niall in on it from the beginning. Red lipstick against a white shirt is too obvious to be a mistake.

Then there’s the other side of the equation, because a marriage never exists in halves. Niall works at home, stays at home, and dreams of what Zayn does with other people because the idea of it is impossibly and deeply thrilling. It makes more sense than he had realized, that he’s in charge at home, that Zayn likes to let him take charge, _needs_ him to take charge.

Niall leans into Zayn, wraps his hand around his neck again. “I like taking care of you. As long as you come home, I’ll take care of you.”

“I always will come home,” Zayn responds simply. “That’s the arrangement.”

Niall could cry from relief because Zayn understands. That’s the only way it can work. They understand each other.

The taxi is taking them through a residential area, and it’s darker inside the cab without streetlights. They’ll be home soon, but not yet. Their night out isn’t quite over, and Niall isn’t finished. He scratches at the back of Zayn’s neck, dragging his nails along his scalp. Zayn gasps and inclines his head into it. Niall is ready now. He moves in and bites at Zayn’s neck with just the very edge of his teeth, not hard at all, but enough for Zayn to feel it. Then he licks the tip of his tongue against Zayn’s skin, tasting sweat and traces of cologne. He sucks hard, absorbing that taste into his own mouth. He knows this is going to leave a mark that will still be visible a couple of days from now, so much more permanent than lipstick. Zayn doesn’t seem to mind; he’s making soft whining noises, and has managed to snake a hand around Niall’s back, clinging onto him. Niall will keep marking Zayn like that so that, when others kiss him, they’ll know to send him back home to Niall when they’re finished.

“Tell me again,” Niall whispers in Zayn’s ear. “Tell me what it’s like to kiss other people, and what it’s like to kiss me.” 

Niall can feel Zayn taking a deep breath. “How about I show you?” he asks.

“Taking some initiative?” Niall asks, raising an eyebrow and pulling back slightly.

“Show and tell is always better when you have something to show. Will you let me?” His tone is so earnest and genuine that it makes Niall’s stomach tremble. He bites at Zayn’s earlobe, then moves to nudge Zayn’s cheek with his nose. 

“Go on. Show me, then.”

Zayn turns his head and catches the corner of Niall’s mouth. “Sometimes other people kiss me hesitantly at first.” He breathes and nips around the edge of Niall’s mouth, not quite kissing yet. “They aren’t sure if I’ll go with it or not. I like it. Makes me feel kind of powerful.”

“Come on,” Niall growls, tilting his head, trying for a better angle to fit their mouths together. “Kiss me,” he whispers.

A flicker of a smile crosses Zayn’s face. “However, you never hesitate with me.” He presses a quick kiss to the very center of Niall’s mouth, and then pulls back. “When you’re angry with me, and when you’re happy with me, you kiss me like you mean it. I can taste it,” Zayn says, flicking his tongue across Niall’s lips. “I can feel the emotion. I don’t feel powerful at all, but I don’t care.”

Niall reaches his other hand up, pulling at Zayn’s chin and his jaw, dragging him in closer. He remembers that first time he had kissed Zayn after finding out about his transgressions. Everything was so confusing then, as he tried to work out why a lipstick smear was so terrifying and thrilling at once. Niall is happier now that they’re working together, trying to figure this out, and he communicates that as he licks across Zayn’s bottom lip, and then into his mouth. He tastes alcohol, and cigarette smoke. He tastes the other people Zayn has been with. There’s something beneath all of it though, something that’s just Zayn, and he licks in deeper to Zayn’s mouth to get to it. It’s warm, sweet, and slow-moving like syrup. It’s the part of Zayn that just wants to feel safe, and it’s the part of Zayn to which Niall responds.

The two of them sway forward together as the taxi pulls to a stop in front of their building. They’re home.


End file.
